Cease, my complaining spirit, cease;
Know ’tis a Father’s hand you feel;
It leads you to the realms of peace;
It kindly only wounds to heal.
My Father! what a holy joy
Bursts on the sad, desponding mind,
To say, when fiercest ills annoy,—
“I know my Father still is kind!”
This bids each trembling fear be still,
Checks every murmur, every sigh;
Patience then waits his sovereign will,
Rejoiced to live,—resigned to die.
O blessed ministry of pain!
To teach the soul its real worth;
To lead it to that source again,
From whence it first derived its birth.